


i glow pink in the night in my room (blossoming alone over you)

by midsummernightoddity



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Dreams, During Canon, Graphic Tooth-Rotting Fluff and Sappiness in the last part, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Robbe's subconsciousness, Sexual Content, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wet Dream, and everything not so nice, if you think that wtfock s3 is on crack let's just say that this is wtfock s3 on acid, some weird formatting that serves a purpose at one point, sugar spice and everything nice, the whole damn enchilada of falling in love basically, there's angst but it's mostly in the form of, think of it as a firm M-rated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midsummernightoddity/pseuds/midsummernightoddity
Summary: "The day when Robbe meets Sander, he also dreams about him for the first time."or, 5 times Robbe dreams about Sander + 1 time he doesn't
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 15
Kudos: 142





	i glow pink in the night in my room (blossoming alone over you)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Mitski's "Pink in the Night". Bless this song and also "Come into the water" for providing what I imagine to be the soundtrack to this fic (if fics had a soundtrack) and also providing inspiration, while I wrote it.  
>   
> -  
> This idea was born from the fact that I love Robbe more than anything, and from being a nerd when it comes to dreams and their interpretation. So, I decided to actually nerd-out and write something about his character arc this season, only through the prism of everything he dreams about. Which means that this doesn't have a lot of plot, or when there is, most of it isn't "plot" in the traditional sense. 😃  
> Hope you enjoy this trippy mess, I kind of hate it, but I decided to share it just for the sake of more fics in the tag in these challenging times. ☮️❤️  
> -  
> 

1.

The day when Robbe meets Sander, he also dreams about him for the first time.

That night, he’s lying on the bunk bed in the beach house, restless and constantly squirming with a claustrophobic unease that’s not even about how tiny the room is, but more about the constriction of his own skin, like it’s stretched too tight and unable to contain him. Noor’s arm is around his middle in a grip that’s loose, but still feels suffocating. Falling asleep is a struggle, even though he’s mildly drunk and his eyelids feel heavy.

But there’s also the lightheadedness, which has nothing to do with the alcohol, he’s had it the whole day—vertigo that remained, even after he stopped spinning on that shopping cart.

Gripping the mattress, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes deep, calming breaths.

And eventually, the sheets in his clenched fists turn into sand slipping through his fingers, the humid seaside air in the room—into a warm breath ghosting over his skin.

Lips are mouthing something inaudible against his neck, and he tries to see, but his vision is blurry, and he only gets brief flashes of moonlight reflected on bleach blonde.

The body on top of his feels so overwhelmingly good, a pleasant pressure that makes him feel like he’s about to dissolve and become one with the million little particles under him.

His hands dig deeper into the sand and a second later, two palms, much bigger and warmer than his, slide over his body, up his arms, until they overlap with Robbe’s, fingers lacing together.

The lips come to his ear and Robbe can hear them parting, hears that specific inhale one does just before speaking.

He wakes up with a start when a door slams somewhere in the house.

After rushing to the bathroom and into the shower, he stands under the cold water and tries not to think about the familiar heaviness becoming more palpable in his chest—the inner black hole of omnipresent shame, of half-truths and repressed urges, which only expands every time he swallows words or the bitterness of a forced smile.

Tries not to think about his dream and how—for the briefest of moments, under the weight of that body—he felt grounded, instead of burdened.

2.

The next time it happens, it’s like opening a door and covering your eyes before you can see what’s on the other side of it, like empty frames on a running film reel.

It’s strange, slipping into a dream that begins with eyes squeezed shut. But he doesn’t question it. There's a knot in his stomach, twisting with something akin to fear, that prevents him from opening them.

Then two arms come up from behind him, wrap around his torso. Fingers touch his jawline, then up over his face in a gentle attempt to relax the strain of Robbe’s furrowed brows.

“Robbe,” it’s the familiar voice, only it’s stripped of its usual cockiness and teasing lilt. It’s hushed and patient. That only makes him clench his eyelids harder. “What are you afraid of?”

The warm grip around him tightens fractionally, and Sander’s nose nuzzles in a path from his shoulder to his jaw.

Robbe's resolve weakens, but he stays silent.

“Open your eyes,” the words end on an open-mouthed kiss on Robbe’s neck, the flick of tongue like an electric shock on his skin.

A thumb brushes gently over his pulse point, like it’s trying to calm the rapid thrum under Robbe’s skin.

“Please, Robbe,” the hint of desperation in his plea is what does it, what makes him unable to resist.

Slowly, his eyes open, and he inhales sharply, when he meets his own reflection, _their_ reflection, in the big mirror in front of them.

They are both still soaking wet from that pool, moonlit drops of chlorinated water glistening bright, forming constellations with every point of contact between their bodies.

The lack of clothes isn’t the slightest bit sexual, or if it is, Robbe’s simply blind to it. The sight doesn’t register as the two of them naked, he feels like he’s seeing them _exposed,_ stripped only to the goosebumps on skin and their eyes—glinting with the same emotion, when they meet in the mirror.

And the vulnerability, the unconcealed intimacy in their reflection tip him off balance.

Holding their eye-contact, Sander's leans closer, his mouth next to Robbe's ear. 

“You can’t hide forever, baby,” he whispers, no judgment or anger in the words.

It’s just that simple fact, one that Robbe has managed to remain wilfully oblivious to, consciously repressing it until now. It's spoken softly, but feels like a punch to the gut.

 _I can’t hide forever_.

And in his heart of hearts, he knows that’s the truth. Deep inside, where he tends to lock the thought away, he _always_ has known, whatever he might tell himself. And that’s the catch, the tricky thing about his daily play-act—it’s still a house of cards, no matter how carefully built.

A rush of blood to his head makes him unsteady, and he searches for the anchor of Sander’s green eyes in the mirror.

He feels like he’s skirting an invisible boundary, his gut is twisting with the strong urge to go beyond it, against all self-preservation.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he actually finds himself on one—Sander right beside him, their hands locking in between them, where they’re standing on the edge of a cliff—and doesn’t know if the immense abyss below them is the deepest part of the ocean or the void of outer space, the space between stars. 

It’s just darkness, a vast chasm of unknowns.

When Sander gives his hand a faint squeeze, Robbe turns his head toward him. There’s something serene in his face, the slight quirk of his lips.

He asks, “All the way or no way, yeah?”

Robbe jerks awake with that dream-like sensation of falling, a loud pounding in his ears and his breath stuttering. By the time he’s managed to calm his racing heart and shaking limbs, most of the dream fades out, slips like sand through his fingers.

The only thing he’s left with is the realization that he’s more scared than he’s ever been.

3.

They spend the afternoon together, cuddled up in his bed, talk about nothing and everything, while they go through his weed stash and lose track of time, getting progressively more carried away every time their conversation tapers off into kisses. 

When Sander announces that he has to be home before 21, Robbe walks with him to the front door.

He feels flushed and giddy, simultaneously bold and bashful, when he plants a small kiss on his cheek, just on a random impulse.

Pulling back, he finds wide green eyes studying him intently.

A moment later Sander pins him against the door, leaves a trail of slow butterfly kisses from his ear to the edge of his jaw. He brushes their noses together, mouth hovering over his, and Robbe can only stare at him, slightly dazed. That satisfied smirk flashes on his face, lips twitching for a second, before they sweep in for a kiss—slow and thorough, so deep and deliciously sloppy, that Robbe’s knees begin to wobble.

They agree to make plans for Friday evening, an implicit promise to have their first date.

After, Robbe walks back to his room and flops down on his bed. He’s smiling so wide, it feels like his face will split in two.

He clutches the pillow that Sander used, inhales deeply a few times and sighs, contentment washing over him.

Before he knows it, he’s slipping into slumber.

This time it’s unmistakable, not a hint of ambiguity or nebulous metaphor. He knows exactly what he’s dreaming about, even though it’s something he’s never experienced.

It’s a succession of sharp, vivid details—all the sensations that he’s never felt, conjured by his mind in oversaturated fragments.

The arch of his back and his trembling thighs.

Fistfuls of white hair.

His nails digging in shoulder blades, leaving red scratches there.

Hands touching gently over his abdomen, his hips, before they clasp his waist in a firm grip.

Teasing bites all over his skin.

Tongue dipping in the valley between his collarbones, and then sliding up, torturously slow, a wet trail along his neck that ends on a hoarse _you feel so fucking good,_ the words a strained rasp against his ear.

His slack jaw, when he throws his head back against the pillow.

Hand cupping his flushed cheek.

Brush of a thumb over his quivering bottom lip, light and tender, before his mouth is pried open with a greedy kiss.

The high-pitched chant of _SanderSanderSander_ and increasingly desperate sounds that escape his throat with every movement.

When the heady surge of pleasure becomes too intense, that precarious edge of control becoming a tightrope under his unsteady limbs, there’s a grasp on his chin, tilting it up. A breathy _look at me_ against his lips.

Eyelids fluttering open, he looks up.

The moment their eyes lock, he loses his balance.

He wakes up with a sharp jerk and the sheets tangled in between his legs, feeling like every drop of blood in his body is currently there.

He recognizes the need for what it is, but there’s none of the familiar shameful anguish and guilt—that well-known impulse that used to make him take cold showers and compulsively delete his internet history. There's no inner self-flagellating mantra.

As he lies on his bed, phantom sensations still rolling through him, wanting Sander feels _right_ , as natural as breathing. 

So he closes his eyes. Savours the afterimages of his dream, flashing behind his eyelids.

4.

Seeing Sander kiss Britt at that party feels like hitting rock bottom.

So the days after are both confusing and inevitably healing. He’s angry and disappointed, doesn’t understand Sander or why he did what he did, but feels like he’s learning new, small things about himself, now that he's out and honest about who he is.

He slowly becomes more sure of the knowledge that he's not any different, that this was him all along. It feels liberating, like something falling into place.

Except for the persistent clench in his heart, an absence that's always at the back of his mind.

He dreams about a fork in the road—painfully distorted versions of reality, different directions that have only one thing in common.

About parallel universes in which:

Fear and shame get the better of him.

When he kisses Noor under the blue neon light of the party, he forces himself to remain focused on her.

Doesn’t break up with her.

He never goes to Sander’s school, never gets to say how much he fucked up.

He doesn’t hear a firm _you have 5 minutes_ behind his back.

 _Chernobyl_ remains an agonizing feeling buried deep inside him, a thought that he never shares.

Noor doesn’t take him to those garbage trucks, because he never meets her.

He goes to the trash bins next to the beach house and recycles the glass bottles alone.

As he’s skating through the park, his gaze randomly falls on a brick wall the distance.

He thinks, _Someone should spray-paint that._

He hears a voice on the radio, singing about hot tramps and rebels, and sways to it without realizing.

It sounds vaguely familiar, but he doesn't think more of it.

He wakes up in the middle of the night with the kind of dread that only comes from nightmares.

The images have left an acrid taste in his mouth, and his chest tightens painfully. Blinking at the ceiling, he gets frustrated with himself.

For all the supposed confidence he had, when he cut off Sander’s attempt at conversation, when he declared himself “single” and for all the pain, confusion and fear, at the end of the day, there’s only one simple truth that he can’t escape from anymore, maybe doesn’t really _want_ to.

He wouldn’t have it any other way—if it meant a world with Sander in it, knows he'd go through all of it again. 

5.

In the heartache and chaos of thoughts that follow after the night in the hotel, Robbe’s days begin to blend together and so do his dreams.

Dreams about himself. About Sander.

But more than that, about the two of them _together_ —every sense of the word unfolding in full technicolor.

He sees mesmerizing seafoam green that glitters with wonder and passion, a mischievous lopsided grin, skin that feels better than the first rays of morning sun and angel-white hair illuminated by the moon.

Matching heartbeats and forehead kisses. Fingers that intertwine together, caress warm cheeks, explore the map of veins under heated skin and stroke the other’s hair, eyelashes fluttering in contentment, when they both nestle in the warmth of the bed.

They nuzzle sleepily and hog the blankets, share clothes and thoughts they’ve never shared before.

They go to the movies together—he sees the popcorn in between them and the gorgeous profile in the dim light of the cinema hall.

Wandering aimlessly around bookstores, they inevitably separate as one of them goes to the science fiction section and the other to the arts & photography, but their eyes meet through the shelves and crinkle in their corners with happiness.

They lie together on the grass and soak the early spring sun. Buy a record player, play vinyl after vinyl, as they pass each other a joint. Play video games. Roll their bodies in spilled paint. Make snow angels and sand castles. Dance at parties with the bass vibrating in their ears.

Read to each other in a soothing voice, eventually get lulled to sleep by a soft whisper of “ _stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span/Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like/Some thin-hipped glittering Bowie-being—a Starman…”*._

He dreams about them traveling together. Hears the distinct rumble of the train and the explanations, murmured in his ear, while they stand in front of paintings in art museums. They get lost in the London subway and wander through the narrow streets of Venice in the fall and eat French croissants, only this time they do it on the Champs-Élysées.

He dreams about frantic fucking, filthy moans swallowed from the other’s mouth, and their bodies moving in a lazy early-morning rhythm. About lips so tender they could be mistaken for a summer breeze and messy kisses that taste like cheap vodka and weed.

He dreams about everything spoken in that deep voice—cheesy one-liners and sad mumbles and excited rants and dirty talk and love confessions and pleading whimpers and teasing innuendos, about a specific snort of amusement.

Doors slammed in momentary anger. Doors slammed with unrestrained lust, bodies pressed urgently against them.

Eyes rolling in pleasure. Eyes rolling in fond exasperation.

He even dreams about dreaming.

He dreams about the _could be’_ s, _would be_ ’s and _what if’_ s.

It's a world, where frustration is brief, but affection is bone-deep and lasting, where tenderness and passion are equally overpowering.

A world, where he stirs awake from the sound of Bowie and the smell of pancakes, bright peals of laughter coming from the kitchen.

So when he actually wakes up and it's only to a monotone rain patter and the dullness of the sky, a simple question a few hours later, that concerned _Are you okay, son?_ , is enough to push him past his breaking point.

Every emotion comes to the surface, and he cries until his eyes are swollen shut and his head is pounding.

+1

After the Christmas party, the flat quiet after everyone left, they rushed to Robbe’s room.

There was a moment of stillness there, just before they started stripping off their clothes, of their eyes locking in a silent conversation, wordlessly agreeing not to rush this, a mutual desire to drag this out.

An unspoken _I want to be close to you like this for as long as possible_ passing between them.

And some time later, Sander’s sitting up, his back against the headboard, with Robbe seated in his lap and their bodies connected in every possible way. They cling to each other, don’t so much kiss as much as they pant in each other’s open mouths.

Robbe doesn’t know how long they’ve been rocking like that, steady and languid, as if in a calm sea, sensations rippling softly through them.

The pleasure simmering under his skin renders him slack-jawed and pliant. Tipping forward, he lets himself go lax against Sander's chest. Burying his face in the curve of his neck, he muffles the tiny whimpers that spill from his mouth, and thinks, _God, I missed you so much._

Sander’s fingers skim over the dimples on his lower back, all along his spine and to the nape of his neck. Rake through his hair, and then come around to the cradle Robbe’s face, where it’s nestled under his jaw. Lips lower to his ear, breath tickling it slightly.

“I love you,” he whispers, his other arm tightening around Robbe’s waist. A shaky exhale and then, “You’re better than anything I could ever dream about.”

Robbe smiles against Sander’s pulse point, a small, secret smile at the words. Bites his bottom lip, wobbly around the edges, when he feels tears prickling behind his eyelids.

He lets the reality of the moment fill his senses. 

It’s impossible not to—Sander is more real than anyone he's ever met, all-consuming and radiant. Delightfully wicked, yet so pure and genuine. He's sanguine, intense and unpredictable, brash and full of mischief, just as much as he's moon-eyed, soft and timid, bashful and nervous, when his guard is down. He's so beautifully _human_.

Sander's body engulfs him with warmth, fits against his so perfectly, that Robbe’s dizzy with it.

He inhales deeply, tries to fill all the space in his lungs with his scent—crisp and soothing, like forest air and the smell after rain, hints of leather and coffee lingering on his skin—all the more intoxicating with the underlying smell of sex.

He takes one of his hands, traces the calluses and faint paint stains, left from the hours spent drawing. He thinks, _beautiful artist’s hands,_ and smiles, revels in the thought that he actually gets to be touched by them, leaves gentle kisses where the skin is rough on his fingertips. Then Sander raises it, palm shaking slightly when it cups his cheek, and Robbe lifts his own hand to cover it.

He looks up, searching Sander's eyes, and a full body shudder goes through him at the swirl of emotions he sees there. Taking his face in between his hands, he looks steadily in deep, watery green.

“You are too,” he whispers, with certainty that he feels right down to his bones. 

Leaning their foreheads together, he breathes out a hushed _I Iove you_ in the space between their lips.

He thinks, _Life is now,_ a warm and bright feeling blooming deep in his chest.

Smiling, he lets his eyes drift shut.

**Author's Note:**

> *The book that they read from to fall asleep is "Life on Mars" by Tracy K. Smith, and the specific quote used is from "Don't You Wonder, Sometimes?".  
> -  
> Brb, I'm also working on a post-quarantine reunion fic, so hopefully I'll be able to post it soon.  
> Stay safe, guys.❤️


End file.
